


AtomWave Prompt Fills

by Liu



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mostly Fluff, Some angst, Tumblr Prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 15,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9555248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: Tumblr prompt fills for the pairing of Mick Rory/Ray Palmer.





	1. "Your voice is sexy." - "Your ass is sexy."

Mick hasn’t laughed this hard in ages. They still don’t know what exactly that yellow-tinged gas was, but they sure do know the effects it had on a certain scientist. 

“Stop laughing,” Ray snaps, sounding like an overgrown, frustrated chipmunk.

“Sure thing, Alvin,” Jax chortles. Ray opens his mouth, but then decides to stop giving them ammunition for more teasing and shuts up, crossing his arms over his chest. Even his huff sounds like he has inhaled half a tank of helium.

“Don’t mind the teasing, Haircut,” Mick snickers, “your voice is sexy.”

“Your ass is sexy,” Ray snaps back. 

Mick blinks.

The rest of the crew go silent, slowly turning to stare at Raymond, who turns an alarming shade of red.

“Shut up!” the man squeaks and scrambles off in the direction of medbay. His mortified look indicates that he probably wishes his condition is terminal.

Mick is still staring at the empty spot where a squeaky (hot) scientist used to be, when Sara speaks up.

“You gonna do something about that?” 

“None of your business,” he huffs, but he stalks off after Raymond anyway.

He’s probably gonna give Gideon five minutes to fix Haircut properly, though… chipmunks are really not Mick’s thing, at all.


	2. "Why're you dressed like that?"

Mick is extremely unprepared for the sight that greets him when he enters the fabrication room.

“Why’re you dressed like that?” he growls, but his voice breaks at every other syllable and he has to clear his throat - not that it helps much, anyway.

Twenty minutes ago, Mick was still arguing against the option of dragging Haircut into a biker gang: unfortunately, there are only two people aboard the Waverider who can identify the device they’re looking for among the garbage piled up in the backyard of that bar, and the Professor point-blank refused to go anywhere near a Harley. Mick still argued against Raymond going - the man has an unfortunate ability to put his foot in his mouth around dangerous people, and Mick doesn’t particularly want to pick a fight five minutes into the mission.

Well, he _wants_ to, he just doesn’t want to listen to Sara bitch him out for it later.

Though if he knew it would end up with Haircut like _this_ … he might not have argued quite so hard.

Raymond’s usual henleys and long-sleeved cotton don’t do his shoulders justice. Mick can see that now, when said shoulders are fully on display, in the form-fitting tank top and a leather vest covered in biker insignia. The smooth skin of Raymond’s arm is covered in ink: Mick recognizes Gideon’s handiwork in the semi-permanent tattoos that can be removed once their mission is complete. The elaborate sleeve won’t stay for long, but Mick can’t help salivating a little at the sight of intricate designs trailing around the muscle.

“Does that mean it looks good or should I change?” Raymond asks, actual worry coloring his tone, and he twists halfway around, trying to look at himself in the mirror. 

It does _things_ to his ass, things that Mick can’t describe with words. Mick himself opted for simple jeans and a leather jacket, but Raymond - oh no, Raymond never does anything halfway. Today, he’s squeezed his incredibly long legs into actual leather pants that gleam and squeak and hug his ass, and Mick swallows hard to try and get over the urge to touch.

He knows it’s a losing battle, but he’s willing to give it a try before he breaks and lunges.

“Mick?” Ray pipes up, squinting at him from the mirror. “Say something. Are the pants too much? Mick?”

Yeah, no, Mick’s done suppressing his urges. He’s always been spectacularly awful at it, so it’s no surprise to anyone when he crosses the room in three long strides and twists his fingers into the worn material of Ray’s black tank top. He yanks and Ray squeaks, and then there’s just delicious pressure of his soft lips against Mick’s.

“No,” Ray mumbles, even as he opens his mouth and lets Mick in, melting as Mick licks in, just the way that always reduces Raymond to a happy puddle of goo. 

A warm hand trails up Mick’s neck, thumb brushing against his ear, and Ray pulls back, flushed and sighing.

“No no no, Mick, not now, do you know how tight those pants are, it took me fifteen minutes to squeeze into them, I _can’t_ -”

He’s cut off by another kiss; and never let it be said that Mick Rory doesn’t pay attention to his partner’s words. He checks those pants out, very thoroughly, palming the swell of Ray’s ass, and yes, Haircut was right, the leather’s stretched pretty tight. 

“Miiick,” Ray whines, pushing away from Mick. The big hands braced against Mick’s chest aren’t exactly doing much to calm him down, though.

“C’mon,” he huffs, but Ray’s squirming out of his hold, laughing (a little breathlessly, at least - if Mick’s gonna suffer through this with a vision of Raymond in those pants, at least he’s not gonna suffer alone).

“I take that as ‘good enough’ on the clothes,” Ray chuckles and, cheeky bastard that he is, actually _winks_. “We’ve got a chip to find. There’s gonna be plenty of time for fun later.”

 _Fun, he says_ , Mick snorts and shakes his head. 

“Don’t you dare get yourself killed before that,” he threatens. Ray laughs as he grabs his helmet - always the safety freak - and walks out of the door.

Mick swears that he’s never seen Haircut wiggle his hips like that.

Tease.


	3. "You forgot about my birthday!"

Raymond’s been acting weird all day. 

He was okay in the morning, all bright smiles and easygoing attitude. Mick knows for a fact that breakfast wasn’t so bad, because he’s gotten better at not burning the eggs (or the toast or… anything). Raymond talked about the things he had to do at work today, and sure, when Mick went to give him his usual kiss goodbye as the man was leaving, Ray lingered for a moment or two, like he was expecting something, but he seemed alright, so Mick let it go.

He spent the day as always when he was off-duty - watching TV and lounging about, mostly. He even did the dishes and a load of laundry, so it couldn’t be the mess that was bothering Raymond when he came home. Dinner was pretty uneventful, except that Raymond kept twitching and spacing out. When he didn’t react to Mick’s suggestion they should get that fire pit for the backyard after all - a thing he’s been vehemently protesting ever since Mick first brought it up, right after they moved in - Mick had a feeling that something definitely wasn’t right.

And when Raymond slipped under the covers, turned off the lamp at his bedside and rolled away when Mick tried to touch him, Mick was one hundred percent positive.

He settled back into his heap of pillows and frowned at the line of Ray’s back, illuminated only by the lamp on Mick’s side.

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?” he tried - he’s never been great at talking and Ray knew that, so usually, he went out of his way to voice what he was thinking. Mick really appreciated the blunt honesty, but he knew that sometimes, he could be insensitive (alright, most of the time) and that Ray couldn’t be expected to pick up the slack all the time.

When Ray didn’t answer, Mick propped his head up on his elbow and reached out to touch Ray’s shoulder. 

Ray pulled away, making a quiet sound that was neither a huff nor a sigh. Mick knew that Ray didn’t play the ‘silent treatment’ game out of pettiness, which meant he had to be genuinely hurt. Mick’s heart picked up the pace and he shifted closer, reaching for Ray again. This time, Ray let his hand rest against his shoulder, but he was tense under Mick’s touch.

“What’s wrong?” Mick asked again, genuinely worried. Ray mumbled something into his pillow, but it was too faint for Mick’s old ears to pick it up, so he plastered himself against Ray’s back and leaned over his shoulder.

“You wanna try that again?”

“You forgot about my birthday!” Ray twisted around, almost headbutting Mick in the process.

In all fairness, he probably would’ve deserved it. Mick winced at the words and frowned, swallowing his first comment, which was that birthdays were stupid and they were both too old to care anyway. _Ray_ cared, and he never forgot to be extra attentive and do all the things Mick liked when it was the other way around. Thinking that he’s failed to show Ray that he cared just as much, maybe not about birthdays, but about _Ray_ … that sucked. Big time.

“In my defense, I forget about a lot of things,” he tried - apologies were another thing he was lousy at. Sometimes, he wondered why Ray kept him around, after everything Mick’s done wrong. 

Ray’s expression softened a little, but it wasn’t his usual warmth that replaced the hurt grimace. Personally, Mick thought that the resignation that seeped into Ray’s features was far worse.

“I know it’s stupid,” Ray shook his head, bringing his hand up to rub it down his face, “and I know I shouldn’t care, I know that you’re not good with this kind of stuff-”

“I wanna be,” Mick grumbled. Yeah, he might not be great with birthdays and anniversaries and Christmas gifts and all that crap, but he wanted to make Ray smile, regardless of what the fucking calendar said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Ray sighed, again - Mick was quickly coming to hate that sound. “It’s just… I don’t know. I thought you remembered. And I built it up in my head, I thought you were planning a surprise, that’s why you didn’t say anything in the morning, and then you didn’t and… just forget it. It’s not important.”

He made to turn around again, but Mick stopped him, with a quiet growl and a hand against Ray’s shoulder, holding him in place.

“Yeah, it is,” he huffed, “I’ll make it up to you, okay? Just gimme a day or two to come up with something good.”

For a moment, he thought Ray would say no - he had a way of doing that, discarding what was important to him in order to accommodate others. They were working on that, though… just as they were working on Mick being a thoughtless asshole, sometimes. 

Eventually, some of the shadows drained from Ray’s face and he smiled - genuinely, this time, with just a hint of that warmth that Mick loved seeing in his eyes.

“Alright. Just… please don’t steal it? I really don’t need anything big.”

Mick laughed and let his head drop against Ray’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of the man he couldn’t imagine his life without, not after all this time.

“Then I’ll make you the best glitter glue card you’ve ever seen, just you wait.”

………………………….


	4. "Move!" - "Why would I move when I'm comfy right here?"

“Move!” Ray groans and pushes against Mick’s shoulders. Ray’s neither small nor weak, and he’s been getting better at fighting, but trying to move Mick when he’s still mostly asleep is like trying to move a mountain.

Mick doesn’t even seem to notice the pressure: he grumbles in his sleep like a disgruntled lion and stretches. His ribcage somehow pushes down on Ray’s bladder and makes him whine.

“Mick! Move!” he tries again, which results in more stretching - the pressure is relieved, just a little, but Ray really, really needs to get out of the bed. Bunk. Whatever the Waverider’s resting area is called. All Ray can think of, right now, is not wetting his pants like a nervous five-year-old.

Ray would swear to himself he’s never trying to drink beer at Mick’s pace again, except he’s made that exact oath in his head at least four times previously, and it never lasted.

“Mick,” he sighs, slapping at the man’s bare shoulder lightly. “I really need to get up. Move.”

“Why would I move if I’m so comfy where I am,” Mick mumbles, face half-mushed into Ray’s chest. He’s drooling a little, and Ray’s heart really shouldn’t melt at the sight of _that_ , but it does. Mick apparently reverts to a vocabulary of a grade schooler when he’s sleepy (and possibly hung-over, which is a really interesting effect) and Ray loves hearing him say words like ‘comfy’, because nobody else gets to… but his melting heart does absolutely nothing for his bladder, so he struggles with Mick’s mostly dead weight and wiggles to the edge of the bed until he can slide from under the heavy lump of a man.

Mick growls something decidedly non-grade-school-appropriate, and Ray chuckles - it makes his bladder situation even more urgent and he marches to the bathroom as quickly as he can.

If he deliberately washes his hands in cold water just so he can press them against a warm, scarred back when he slips into the bed again… well, he can pull off an innocent face like nobody else.


	5. "We bet, and you lost." - "But tattoos are permanent!"

“We bet, and you lost,” Mick crosses his arms over his chest. In all fairness, that chest is exactly what got Ray into this mess in the first place: high school football players should be banned from having chests like that, otherwise poor impressionable nerds like Ray are in great danger of making exactly these kinds of mistakes.

Ray gives the tattoo parlor another wary look, and tries his best pleading look. Not that it worked in the hour leading up to this moment.

“But tattoos are permanent,” he mumbles, and Mick raises an eyebrow.

“You shoulda thought about that before you made the bet, Pretty.”

Ray really, really should have. But it’s too late now… so he pushes the door open, wincing when the bell above the doorway reminds him that this is, indeed, happening.

“What in the name of- Rory? _Palmer_?”

The sound of his English teacher’s voice is really not what Ray was expecting to hear tonight, but he can’t say he regrets it when Mr. Clarke swings his legs off the leather chair and tugs his shirt down over what is shaping up to be a quite impressive… uh. Something. Ray’s in no state to be noticing details like that.

“What are you two doing here? And- are you _drunk_?!”

Ray winces at that, and attempts to hide behind Mick’s back. Considering that Mick’s had at least two more beers, it’s likely not doing much to save his reputation.

“I really thought you were better than that, Palmer,” Mr. Clarke frowns and points at the door. “Get out of here. And be glad that I won’t call your parents right away.”

They scramble out in record time - well, Ray does, and when he turns, Mick is following. 

The cool night air doesn’t do much to make Ray’s head spin any less, especially not when he sways and Mick wraps his beefy arm around Ray’s waist. Ray decides to take advantage of his drunk plausible deniability and leans into that impressive chest. 

“Sorry I couldn’t do it,” he mumbles - he’s really not, he did not want a tattoo of any kind, and definitely not any that Mick might choose for him. He’s more sorry that Mick will think he’s just a nerdy chicken now - which he is, but Mick probably won’t want to have anything to do with Ray if he _knows_  that.

“Wouldn’t’ve let you do it anyway, Haircut,” Mick grumbles into his hair, and Ray only realizes then that they’ve stopped still, standing in the middle of the quiet street and… hugging. And Mick’s not moving away. Wow. Ray’s heart does a leap in his chest, and he dares to look up, just a little. 

“Really?”

“Yeah. Just wanted to… dunno. Y’know. Be alone. With you. And shit.”

As far as confessions go, this definitely ranks at the very bottom of the list. And yet, Ray can’t remember any words that would’ve made him happier in his life. He smiles, bright and goofy - because he’s _always_ goofy, and nerdy and awkward and a little too loud, and he can get lost in his research and actually likes schoolwork… but Mick knows all of this about him, and he still wanted, really, truly _wanted_ , to be alone with Ray.

If that’s not true love, then Ray doesn’t know what is.

“Yeah,” he says, and then realizes that Mick hasn’t actually said anything - it makes him blush in embarrassment, and then Mick looks down at him and his lips twitch, like he’s trying to smile, and Ray’s heart nearly jumps out through his throat. For a second, he thinks Mick is going to kiss him, and his stomach twists with anxiety and with the hope that despite the beer he’s had, he will remember tomorrow-

But Mick just brushes Ray’s hair out of his eyes and sighs.

“C’mon then, Haircut… I’ll take you home.”

Maybe, just maybe, Ray deliberately points Mick towards a longer route, just so he can lean against that chest for a while longer. He’s pretty sure Mick knows that, too, but he never says a word.


	6. "The salad's here is pretty good." - "Do I look like a rabbit?"

The restaurant is empty.

Ray vaguely remembers doing the same thing for Felicity once, so many years ago that the memory is quite hazy. But Ray still distinctly recalls the look of surprise, and then mild disapproval, in her face. He sees now that they weren’t good match: he tried too hard, and she did not know what to do with that.

Mick, on the other hand, always enjoys having a restaurant to himself. Ray has done it a few times, after he realized that Mick loves not having people around who would glare and whisper about his manners.

Ray himself enjoys not being escorted out of a restaurant by five security guards. Ray loves Mick, he really, really does, but having dinner without causing a fight to break out is definitely a plus.

It’s a small miracle that Mick has agreed to dress up for tonight: usually, he insists that his birthday means he gets to wear whatever he wants, which is a) jeans, or b) nothing at all. Ray’s partial to the latter, but for tonight, he really wants to spend some time with Mick, and not just in bed. Normally, Ray wouldn’t mind if their evening began and ended in the bedroom, but after what happened on the last mission, Ray really wants some quiet time, peaceful and relaxing, just… _being there,_ together. 

Mick probably feels the same, or at least he can read Ray well enough after all these years that he understands Ray’s urge to spend money on a grand gesture. It’s one of the things Ray loves about the man: Mick will endlessly tease him about money and luxuries, but in the end, he will also happily enjoy whatever Ray dishes out. If Ray had known earlier how refreshing it could be to date a thief with absolutely no regard for the value of money (or personal property), maybe he would’ve tried it sooner. 

Or not. Ray has a feeling there aren’t many men like Mick Rory in the multiverse.

Mick grunts happily and drops onto the chair, promptly setting his feet up on the table, right next to the silverware. The waiter’s eye twitches, and Ray coughs to conceal his amusement, then orders wine for himself. Mick, predictably, yells for his favorite beer, and Ray’s pretty sure the restaurant doesn’t normally offer that brand (perhaps no beer at all), but they will make an exception - Ray has paid enough to ensure that. He stopped fighting Mick about his preferences in alcohol years ago: if Mick wants beer in a restaurant that serves hundreds of dollars in wine, then beer he will get. 

Mick picks up the menu and scoffs at the golden lettering - he’s never been taken by opulence, a simple man at heart, and Ray can’t help but smile at the thought. Nobody believed they would make it this far, but they have, and Ray intends to celebrate with all he’s got. 

If he wants to remind himself that it’s not over, not yet, then nobody can blame him.

“Any recommendations, dear?” Mick smirks - he always turns endearments into a tease, a joke, but Ray knows that despite the slightly sarcastic tone, Mick truly means it. After the (extremely) rocky start, Ray has not had the reason to doubt Mick’s feelings for years.

“The salad here’s pretty good,” he replies, tentatively, and he can pinpoint the exact moment when Mick puts two and two together. To Ray’s misfortune, Mick is really nowhere near as stupid as he pretends, and Ray’s nowhere near as subtle as he would like to be. 

“Do I look like a fucking rabbit?” Mick scowls, and lets his feet drop off the table so that he can lean forwards, towards Ray. That’s never a good sign: that’s a fighting stance, a show of Mick bracing himself for an actual conversation, one that he intends to win as surely as he would a bar fight. 

And Ray, unfortunately, hasn’t yet learned when to back down.

“You had a heart attack,” he frowns right back at Mick, facing irritation with determination. “Just saying.”

“I had a heart attack because that asshole from 2195 shot me with that freak gun, not because I don’t eat enough leafy greens,” Mick snorts, and he’s not wrong, but having watched Mick like that, clutching at his chest and panting for breath, his face pale and pained… Ray never wants to see something like that again. 

“You _could_ eat better, though.”

“I could,” Mick shrugs, “but I won’t. If I kick the bucket at sixty because I didn’t eat salad, so be it, at least I’ll die happy.”

A shiver runs down Ray’s spine, making him clench his fingers into the fabric of his slacks.

“Don’t,” he whispers, but it’s barely more than a breath. He can’t joke like that, not now, not after seeing Mick nearly die, gun or not. He can’t prevent time-traveling madmen from shooting at Mick, and that lack of control, the memory of what happened to Anna, what could easily also happen to Mick… all of that grips Ray’s lungs in an iron fist and makes it nearly impossible to breathe. 

Except suddenly, there’s a warm, large palm against his cheek, and Ray looks up, startled. When did he close his eyes? He doesn’t remember - but all he can see now is Mick, crouching in front of him and scowling in that way of his that means ‘I’m concerned but I don’t want everyone to know’. 

“Hey,” Mick says softly, and Ray swallows, trying to make his voice work again. It takes a while, and so he presses his cheek against Mick’s hand, trying to communicate what he can’t properly voice just yet. Mick licks his lips, and then pushes up from his crouch, and all of a sudden they’re kissing and Ray’s really glad he bought out the restaurant for tonight. Mick’s not a shy man, but he doesn’t do PDAs - and Ray can really use a kiss right now.

He brings his hand up and cradles the back of Mick’s head, just the way he knows Mick likes. Their mouths slot together in that achingly familiar way that Ray wouldn’t trade for anything in the world, and when Mick pulls away, there’s residual softness, a warm light of some sort, in his eyes that nobody gets to see but Ray. It makes him awestruck and proud and so, so grateful for everything in his life that has led him to this moment, to this man, that Ray feels moisture gather at the corners of his eyes.

Mick makes a mildly disgusted face at him then, uncomfortable with any hint of tears as per usual, and Ray chortles with laughter at the sight.

“I’ll get the damn salad, Haircut, just stop it with the waterworks. Jesus Christ, I’d think a man was allowed one measly heart attack at fifty-five.”

“An ordinary man, maybe,” Ray smiles - he still feels nauseated at the thought of what could have happened, what still might… but he will be damned if he lets himself ruin Mick’s birthday with his fears. “Someone who has helped saved the world, what, eleven times now? Not so much.”

“I’d say that warrants a few heart attacks on its own,” Mick snorts as he drops back into a chair: Ray doesn’t miss how Mick casually slides the chair closer to Ray’s, their knees bumping under the table. 

“You have to take good care of your heart,” Ray grins, and he sees that Mick realizes what he’s leading up to, because Mick grimaces in that moment and rolls his eyes:

“Don’t say it.”

“After all,” Ray continues, his grin growing wider, “your heart belongs to me now, doesn’t it? I remember you said something to that effect, right?”

“A man gets drunk one time,” Mick grumbles, but an unmistakable smile is tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He reaches across the table and takes a hold of Ray’s hand, withdrawing only when the waiter comes back with their drinks. Then, he dutifully orders the dreaded salad… with a side of steak. 

Ray decides to save the battle about whether or not fruit can be considered a dessert for later. 


	7. "Let's bury the hatchet."

“Let’s just bury the hatchet,” Ray says, one hand pressed against Mick’s chest and the other stretched back towards Nate. Ray didn’t exactly catch them brawling, but the atmosphere has been thick with tension and Ray knew that gleam in Mick’s eyes.

It didn’t promise anything nice.

“Fuck your hatchet,” Mick growls, and Ray truly wishes he were a worse man, a man who would happily allow his teammates to kill each other over something so trivial. “What kinda man takes another man’s snacks?!”

“A hungry one?” Nate blinks, apparently still not seeing the problem. 

Mick honest-to-god _growls_. Ray has to lean most of his weight against the man’s chest in order to keep him from lunging at Nate. Ray reminds himself that they can’t afford to be one historian short on this mission… definitely not over a chocolate bar.

“I’ll get you a new one!” Ray tries, desperate, and Mick eyes him with suspicion. That’s potential for averting the crisis right there, and Ray grasps at it like a drowning man. “How about cupcakes, huh? You like those better than chocolate bars, don’t you?”

He feels a little like he’s trying to bribe a five-year-old. A hunky, burly, 180-pound five-year-old who looks about ready to murder someone. 

Mick tilts his head a little (Ray would never admit how cute he finds that - mostly because he knows Mick would stop doing it).  
  
“You know how to bake?” Mick huffs. Ray feels like a wartime negotiator who has the well-being of a whole country dependent on his words.

“I have a doctorate in biomolecular engineering?”

Nate, obviously not having learned his lesson about shutting up at appropriate moments, pipes up. “That sounds _nothing_ like baking.”

Ray practically feels Mick tense under his hand. “Nate, you’re not helping.”

“Sorry.”

“Fine,” Mick grumbles suddenly, and Ray has almost three seconds to be pleasantly surprised at his boyfriend’s willingness to be appeased, when the man smirks. “But you’re also doing that _thing_.”

Ray groans. “Absolutely not.”

Mick’s eyes narrow. Ray sighs. “Alright, then. But you have to promise not to murder Na- _anyone_ over snacks, deal?”

Mick’s rough hand slides over Ray’s, right there above Mick’s heart. 

“You got a deal, Pretty.”

Mick saunters out of the kitchen area with the look of a cat who got all the cream _and_  five pounds of beef. Ray lets his arms drop to his sides and then looks up to the heavens - or what passes for heavens on a time-ship. 

Nate grins. “What’s ‘The Thing’?”

Ray gives him a withering look.

“Aren’t you the least bit grateful I just saved your hide from some really unpleasant butt-kicking?”

“A little,” Nate shrugs. “Considerably less so now that the danger has passed. Tell me about ‘The Thing’.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re no fun,” Nate sighs and turns for the door. Ray halts him before he can take another step.

“Where are you going? You’re helping me with the cupcakes. After all, it’s _your_  mess I’m cleaning up.”

“Will there be a lot of cleaning up involved? After ‘The Thing’?”

“…on second thought, get out.”

In the end, it’s for the best that Nate does just that; Ray really does not want anyone else to see how cute Mick gets when he’s got a bowl to lick clean of the sugary dough… and how badly the cupcakes burn when Mick decides he’d much rather distract Ray from baking with sticky kisses.


	8. "You broke what?!" - "Don't worry, I'm okay."

Ray’s half-asleep when he hears the door slide open with a quiet ‘whoosh’. He cracks open one eye to make sure his visitor is an expected one, and wordlessly shuffles towards the wall to make room for the other man.

Mick must be tired because it takes him a while longer than usual to slip under the covers, his warmth instantly permeating the thin cotton and radiating towards Ray like a personal invitation. He curls into Mick’s back, forehead resting between Mick’s shoulderblades as he inhales the familiar scent. 

“Hey,” he mumbles against Mick’s skin, lips dragging lazily over the thick scars. He’s come to love them with all his heart, because they’re a sign that Mick’s still alive, that he’s a survivor over anything else. And usually it gets Mick going, to see Ray face his old wounds without prejudice, without fear - so when Mick doesn’t immediately turn over for a hungry kiss, Ray knows something’s not right even before Mick speaks.

“Not today, Haircut,” he huffs quietly - he doesn’t sound angry, just tired, and Ray rests his hand over Mick’s hip, thumb tracing soothing circles around the bone. 

“It’s fine,” he says, so that Mick doesn’t feel obligated to do anything he’s not up to: after all, Mick’s not thirty anymore, and Ray understands that some days, sex isn’t on the table at all. 

But Mick grabs his hand and brings it up to his chest, and Ray knows what that means: that Mick wants to, but _can’t_. Ray can’t help the small smile curling the corners of his lips upwards, even as he presses a kiss to the back of Mick’s neck. It’ll never cease to amaze him, this feeling of being wanted even when it’s impossible for Mick to act on that want. 

“Everything alright?” he asks, more out of habit than any real concern. Mick stiffens a little in his arms.

“Yeah,” comes the eventual grunt, “just broke my ass. Gideon fixed it, ‘m just still sore.”

That gives Ray a pause. He pushes up on one elbow and wishes he could actually look Mick in the eyes for this.

“You broke _what_?!”

“Don’t worry, I’m okay.”

“How do you-”

“Tailbone, Haircut. It’s fine now, my back just hurts. Let it go.”

Even in the darkness, Ray would swear to anything that he can actually see Mick’s ears turning red. He settles back into the pillows and tries to push down the amusement fighting to break to the surface.

Mick’s fingers tighten around his hand. “I can hear you, Haircut. If you don’t stop laughing at me, you’re sleeping on the floor.”

Ray really, really shouldn’t feel a wave of fondness wash over him at that: but the thought of Mick being so comfortable in this room that he would actually consider kicking Ray out of his own bed… well, it feels like Ray’s not the only one who has come to think of this room as ‘theirs’ rather than ‘his’. He snuggles into Mick’s back, careful to keep his hips away from Mick’s poor abused tailbone, and smiles.

“I swear I’m done. Goodnight, Mick.”

“Goodnight, Raymond.”

Rough lips brush against Ray’s knuckles, and the last thought of his day, as always, belongs to the ridiculous, amazing man in his arms. 


	9. "Everything was fine, until you showed up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for pansexual-fandom-queen on tumblr.
> 
> Contains some spoilers for the final episode of LoT s02.

Turning his back on Snart feels like someone has taken Mick and turned him inside out, leaving all the raw and vulnerable parts out in the open. Leonard’s eyes were cold and resigned when he looked out onto the dark water of the harbor, and Mick’s own words rang hollow in his ears when he couldn’t quite explain that what he was doing to Snart wasn’t just slow-burn execution.

 _Still a death sentence,_  Leonard said, and he wasn’t wrong; he looked confused and lonely and pissed when Mick took away his memories, and all Mick wanted was to stay there, open a couple of beers and get back to the life he had lost when he stepped on board of the Waverider.

But there are lifetimes between that life and Mick right now, and no matter how nostalgic he feels for the times when he knew his place so damn well, he cannot go back. Trying feels like squeezing one’s eyes shut after startling awake at four in the morning - it would be right to go back under, to let oneself be dragged into the blissful oblivion of a dream or two, but with a pounding heart and a head full of spinning thoughts, sleep simply refuses to come again. 

All his life, he’s been content with letting others lead - there was no failure, no pain in decisions that were not his responsibility. He followed the hands that fed, baring his teeth the way he was pointed, and it was enough, for a while.

Now, he’s no one’s dog and he knows what refusal to comply tastes like, the bittersweet tang of rebellion in the back of his throat, smelling surprisingly like the acrid stench of a fire burning everything away, maddening and liberating at the same time. It’s a thrill in Mick’s veins, at first, to declare himself free, to claim that one word for himself that nobody’s ever used and maybe nobody else ever will.

_Better._

He’s better now, in a way he never expected to be, and it’s surprisingly easy to breathe under the weight of that one word. Maybe because nobody’s expecting anything of him, still, after everything he’s done, everything he could’ve said and screwed up and didn’t. He’s better, but he’s not sure what exactly it is supposed to mean and that uncertainty leaves him out of balance.   

The beer, at least, still tastes the same when he takes a generous swig from his bottle and sprawls in the chair his body knows so well by now. He’s ready to pass out after a couple of drinks, ready for an epiphany that most likely won’t come, when the door to his bunk shifts open and in storms Raymond Palmer, flushed and sweating and breathing hard.

“Mick!” 

His voice catches on something Mick’s heard before, not too long ago on a fucking French battlefield. Briefly, he thinks of Raymond’s eyes when he watched that other Mick get skewered by Snart (and wasn’t that a goddamn sight to behold), and he sneers over his beer, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“What do you want?” 

He’s blunt, because that’s all he’ll ever be, a hard, chipped bat where a refined blade would do better. Raymond blinks at him for a moment, like he’s hurt by Mick’s question - like all of them don’t come to Mick just when they need something, like a fist in someone’s face. Inexplicably, it twinges more when it comes to Haircut, who used to look at Mick like he cared, for a while way back, but Mick will get over it.

If there’s one thing he’s always excelled at, it’s surviving.

“Nothing,” Ray says, in that mildly hurt, whiny tone of his. Mick thinks he should find it much more annoying than he does. “Just… I wanted to make sure you’re- that everything’s fine.”

“Everything _was_  fine,” Mick snorts, “until you showed up.”

“S-shut up.”

Time freezes, and Ray’s eyes go wide. Mick slowly turns his gaze to the other man - who looks as shocked by his own words as Mick feels.   
  
“What did you just say to me?” Mick asks, low and menacing - he’s been itching for a fight ever since leaving Snart behind, _again_ , and if that’s what Raymond’s angling for, Mick’s willing to provide. He stands up and pushes his chair back, making it scrape loudly against the floor.

“Don’t kill me,” Raymond pleads, quietly - but instead of backing away he’s rushing forward, charging like a determined, terrified bull. Mick’s hands curl at his sides and he braces for the impact-  
  
-what he doesn’t count on is lips colliding with his own instead of a fist, and a hand twisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. It punches a gasp out of him and Raymond’s tongue is in his mouth then, slick and warm and completely, wonderfully _weird_. The sense of losing his balance returns and Mick stumbles back a step, but Ray doesn’t let him go. There’s something to be said about the rush of being caught just before falling; Mick’s hands find their way to Ray’s shoulders on their own, like Mick’s body thinks that this nerd is exactly the kinda support he needs.   
  
Raymond drags his teeth over Mick’s stubbly jaw and Mick wonders if maybe his body’s actually right this one time.   
  
“What the fuck,” he exhales, softly, into Raymond’s messy hair. The man goes still against him, and Mick momentarily regrets that the nerd has apparently come to his senses. He’ll flee now, and then he’ll blush and avoid Mick’s eyes for the next few weeks, and then they’ll just slide back into the old routine of Raymond being happy-go-lucky buddies with Nate and ignoring anything that might’ve been going on between the two of them. Wouldn’t be the first time it happened, after all. 

But Ray’s pulling back just a fraction, just enough to look right into Mick’s eyes, all chocolate warmth and puppy-like sincerity.

“I thought I saw you die,” he whispers, and then his breathy voice goes an octave higher as he gets lost in the tangle of his own thoughts and words, “well, I _did_ see you die, it just wasn’t you, but I didn’t know that at the time and I can seriously say my heart stopped for a moment right there.”  
  
Mick’s fingers, still tangled in Raymond’s dark hair, tighten at the sight of the acute loss mirrored in those big brown eyes. The guy really looks like a fucking puppy… Mick must be losing his mind to find that cute.

Or maybe he’s lost his mind half a year ago when he first kissed Raymond, back when everything hurt and all he had on his mind was grief. He didn’t know how to cope with it then, with the pain or with the warm and fuzzy and uncomfortable feelings that were stirring in his stomach whenever Raymond fucking Palmer smiled at him.

He still doesn’t, apparently, because his stomach does a somersault just from looking at Raymond up close.  
  
“That what changed your mind?” Mick huffs; he’s not ready to believe in this, in _Raymond_ , not after he’s just started regaining his balance on his own, trying to find his way without anyone’s back to follow. Not when Raymond’s just acting on an impulse, terrified of death and trying to make it all mean something more than it does.

“I don’t want to wait around until I see you die for real,” Raymond replies and Mick’s heart lurches. He lets go of Raymond’s shoulder, untangles his fingers from the man’s hair, and ignores the voice in his head that tells him to go along with this and fuck the consequences.

He’s no one’s dog, and he won’t be led around on a leash anymore.

“I’m not doing this just because you’re scared,” he tells Haircut and turns away. The weak grip of Raymond’s hands on his hips means that those long fingers brush against Mick’s stomach, and he shivers, but he’s stronger than this now, stronger than surrendering to want that will only bring him pain in the end. 

Raymond’s puppy look turns into hurt confusion when he frowns.

“I don’t understand,” he says, and of fucking course he doesn’t - he’s always been his own damn man, something Mick needs to become on his own, now that he’s determined to do it. He won’t sit back and let Sara and Stein and everyone else run this show: he’s in, because there’s nothing for him outside this ship, nothing worth going after, at least. 

But he knows that he’s not strong enough, yet; he doesn’t trust himself enough to withstand the assault of Raymond’s brilliant smiles. He doesn’t trust himself to weather the storm when (if) Raymond leaves; and he doesn’t trust Raymond to stay, not yet, not when the reason he’s come around in the first place is guilt or regret or fear. 

“Give it time,” Mick says, telling himself he’s not begging. Goosebumps tingle up his arms when Ray steps back and turns away to leave, taking his warmth with him, but Mick knows that he can’t take it back, not for himself and not for Raymond. His trust used to be a weight on the people who had it, his parents and then Leonard; Mick expected them to call the shots in all the right ways, and he refuses to do the same with Raymond.

If they ever do this, for real, they’ll have to be on level ground, two equals meeting each other head on, no fear, no regrets. Mick’s not sure Raymond will still be there when Mick gets where he needs to be to do that - but he’s chosen his path, and someone once told him he can be one stubborn asshole when he tries.

Four months later, among the ruins of a futuristic Los Angeles overrun with a goddamn Jurassic Park ensemble, it turns out that the one guy who can outstubborn him is Raymond Palmer.


	10. "We started with one and now we have seven. You have no chill."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon prompt fill drabble from tumblr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had two ideas for the same prompt so I just had to cram both into this :D

“Mick,” Ray groans, with a tone of exasperated fondness in his voice that really says it all. “Another one?”

“Couldn’t leave him there,” Mick huffs and nuzzles his nose against the soft fur of the rat clinging to his shoulder. He’s taken to the animals ever since Ray gave him his first one, and he’s been somewhat obsessively collecting any and all rats that appear friendly whenever they’re on a mission.

Needless to say, the rest of the team wasn’t all that happy with the development, but they’ve come to accept it as just another part of Mick. Or rather, Ray-and-Mick, because Ray acknowledges that he’s a horrible enabler, especially since the time Axel died at the grand age of three-and-a-half and Mick was pissy and upset for weeks. Ray finally gave in and got Mick a new one; Daisy has been with them ever since.

“Don’t let Sara see,” Ray sighs. The way things are, no one is likely to notice one more rat, anyway. “We started out with one… now we have seven. You have no chill when it comes to rats.”

Mick grumbles, but it’s a happy one, a deep rumble in his chest that almost sounds like a giant-cat purr, which is only slightly disturbing considering he’s nuzzling a rat.

“Got you something, too.”

He sticks his hand in his pocket and produces… well. Ray doesn’t have to see to know what it is.

“Mick,” he sighs, and then, again when Mick uncurls his fist and reveals a beautiful band of gold inlaid with what looks like sapphires, “Mick. I told you-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, Haircut. You don’t need the perfect ring. Well I’m getting you one anyway. So?”

“It’s perfect,” Ray smiles and takes the ring; it’s a little tight around his ring-finger, but he’s still wearing the first one Mick ever got him, so he slips the sapphire band onto his pinky and watches Mick’s expression soften. Maybe it’s weird, the way Mick likes putting more and more rings on Ray’s finger, but Ray takes it as a continuous proof of Mick’s affection (decidedly Beyonce-inspired), so he doesn’t really mind. 

 _S_ _ara_  will mind, the stealing part, mostly, but what Sara doesn’t know doesn’t hurt her. Like the twelve engagement rings Ray’s hiding under his mattress. 

He doesn’t really know whether the ring-giving has any expiration date or a specific goal in mind: all of them are perfect in Ray’s mind, and nothing will ever beat the rush of love that overtook him when Mick presented him with the first one, a plain steel band that looked like a spare part off the wreckage in which they were currently fighting. It looked bad, really bad, and neither of them believed they’d be getting out of there alive. It was the absolute worst moment to propose, and Mick didn’t  _really_  say much aside from ‘can’t die before I give you one, Haircut’, but Ray has never been so happy in the middle of a fight since.

“You like it?” Mick asks - he always does, as if he needs the confirmation that what he’s doing is enough for Ray. It’s more than that, but Ray doesn’t mind saying it over and over again.

“I like  _you_  more,” he chuckles, and kisses Mick in spite of the eye-rolling.


	11. "It's just rain, you aren't gonna melt."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon prompt fill from tumblr.

“It’s just rain, you aren’t gonna melt!” Mick snaps, but it doesn’t make Ray feel any warmer. He tries to keep the teeth-chattering to a minimum, but it’s pretty hard to do when his whole body is set on one goal only: avoid hypothermia at all costs.

“I t-t-thought y-you of all p-peop-le would m-mind,” he says, without biting his tongue even once, which Ray considers his personal best so far. This mission is taking a rapid turn for the worse, Ray’s suit is happily on-board the Waverider, and people have been chasing them through the freezing sheets of water falling from the sky for hours now.

Ray, as much as he would usually try to find the best in every situation, is  _not happy_.

“Just ‘cause I like fire doesn’t mean I’m gonna cry if it rains,” Mick growls, and Ray would like to admit that it makes sense when he puts it like that… but another bout of violent shivers runs through him and he’s suddenly too busy trying to curl his arms tighter around himself to keep at least a semblance of heat.

He’s squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his jaw and generally focusing on making as little sound as he can when suddenly, a thick, heavy sheet of  _warmth_ envelops him and Ray’s eyes fly open in shock.

Mick, only in a thin shirt that is getting soaked fast after having dumped his jacket over Ray’s shoulders, isn’t looking in his direction, but Ray can see that it’s the purposeful kind of ‘not-looking’, the kind where you’re embarrassed about what you’ve just done and pretending you didn’t do anything of the sort.

Ray’s teeth are still chattering, but he curls up into Mick’s warmed-up jacket and smiles, just for himself while Mick’s not looking.  

Later, he brings Mick homemade chicken soup when he’s down with a nasty cough, and doesn’t look away.


	12. "I don't know why I married you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon prompt fill from tumblr.

“I don’t know why I married you,” Ray says as he stares wide-eyed at Mick, who just keeps sipping his beer as if there’s always been a wedding band around his finger.

It’s simple, tasteful platinum and Ray really shouldn’t be thinking about  _that_  right now.

“Maybe,” Sara calls from the other end of the room, cheerfully disrespecting the very obvious need for privacy, “because you’re such a Boy Scout that you had to tie the knot before letting Mick in your pants?”

“Trust me,  _that_  ain’t his problem,” Mick snorts. There’s five seconds of silence and then Sara howls with laughter when Ray’s face practically glows red.

“No, I mean I really don’t know why I married you,” he tries again, giving Mick a miserable look. “I don’t remember the whole day. The… um. I think I maybe remember proposing?”

“There were doves involved,” Sara chirps. Ray’s surprised she hasn’t whipped out popcorn by now. “Mick accidentally burned a few.”

Ray whines in the back of his throat, distressed at the thought of some poor birds being toast because  _he_  brought them to a pyro. What was he thinking? Oh, that’s right, he  _wasn’t_ , courtesy of Rip’s fancy memory grenades. Those things should definitely come with a warning.

Mick finishes his beer and leans closer, thick forearms resting on the polished surface of the table and platinum glinting on his finger. Ray’s stomach performs all sorts of unsettling acrobatics and then settles for a quiet hum of confused happiness.

“So you wanna get a divorce, Haircut? I’ll sign it if it’ll make you stop looking like you haven’t taken a dump in two weeks.”

Mick’s voice is light, teasing, maybe a little cutting, just like he always is. But Ray can see a flicker of concealed hurt in his eyes, and he knows in that second that whatever has led to the ridiculous fact that he is now, at least in the 22nd century databases, listed as ‘Raymond Rory-Palmer’… he wouldn’t change a thing. And so, Ray reaches over the table and curls his hand over Mick’s, delighting in the tiniest clink of ring against ring.

“I’m good. But please… let’s not honeymoon in Aruba.”


	13. "I know I was a fool, the butt of everyone’s jokes. But I was your fool, so It didn’t matter what they thought."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for the awesome legends-of-direbear on tumblr, who wanted atomwave and a really wonderful quote which I kinda messed up in this one... but the original went like this: “I know I was a fool, the butt of everyone’s jokes. But I was your fool, so It didn’t matter what they thought.”
> 
> High-school AU (Mick is 19, Ray is 17, nothing aside from Mick's incapability of dealing with emotions happens)

Mick’s still high on adrenaline and swinging wide by the time Raymond drags him away. There’s four of them and one of Mick, and some would say it’s not really a fair fight: not in the least because they’re juniors and Mick’s nineteen, having been held back a couple times. He’s bigger, tougher, knows how to fight dirty and win, unlike the little pieces of shit who just know how to throw insults, not punches. But he doesn’t care about _fair_ , he never really did: what he cares about is making them shut up, once and for all.

Haircut nearly catches an elbow to the face for his efforts, since Mick doesn’t give up easy. The four assholes scramble away, yelling insults in high-pitched, panicked voices, trying to salvage whatever’s left of their stupid pride. Mick spits on the ground; the dust underneath his feet is tinged pink. One of them must’ve busted his lip. He tests his teeth with his tongue while Raymond’s dragging him towards the nurse’s office, but nothing seems to be moving.

He deflates a little as they enter the sterile white room – Mick’s never liked it here and he usually avoids it like the plague, but Raymond has that stern look on his face that’s kinda hilarious on a kid his size, all long limbs and no grace at all. That look says that Mick better sit quietly, so he does, on the edge of a plastic-covered bed that makes his stomach heave with memories.

The nurse’s out, at least; Haircut rummages through the cabinets and comes back with cotton balls and a nondescript bottle. He’s very obviously pissed, but he’s still gentle as he dabs disinfectant onto Mick’s split lip and scraped knuckles. Mick wants him to yell, to get mad, anything but this ‘kill them with kindness’ approach that’s hurting deep in Mick’s chest. But Raymond’s quiet all the way through, and he finishes with the disinfectant, he keeps Mick’s scraped-up hand between his and finally looks up.

There’s disappointment in his eyes, and worry, and a little fear, maybe. All the things Mick wanted to keep out so badly that he didn’t stop to think. That’s never been his forte, thinking before diving headfirst into a fight, but with Haircut around, it’s been harder than ever lately.

Mick swallows and looks away, scowling at an off-white wall. Raymond’s long fingers tighten around his hand. It stings a little where Mick’s skin is split, but he’s used to this kind of pain, and he can deal with it way better than he can deal with the look in Raymond’s eyes whenever some jerk says something like those four.

“Mick,” Haircut says softly. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Then they better shut up,” Mick snaps, shoulders hunching under the weight of Raymond’s look that he doesn’t feel ready to face.

“Mick,” Raymond repeats on a sigh. It sounds like defeat, and Mick still can’t bring himself to look at the inevitable helplessness that’s bound to show up in Raymond’s eyes sooner or later.

It always does – it’s just the way people have looked at Mick since he was a little kid, shrugging and wishing they knew what to do with him. But that’s the thing: Mick doesn’t know what to do with himself most of the time, so how can anyone be expected to do better?

The wall stares back and Mick wishes he were a better kid, a better man, so that he could be the knight in shining armor Raymond deserves, instead of this messed-up asshole, always adding to the problem no matter how much he tries to make it all go away.

He pulls his hand out of Raymond’s hold and braces his hands against the bed. Not so sterile anymore, after having been graced with Mick’s dusty jeans – he doesn’t know why the thought bothers him, but all he wants is to walk out and not look back.

But Raymond’s hands come to rest on his knees, the kid still crouching in front of him, and it’s impossible to move unless he wants to knock Haircut over.

And Mick, more than anything, is terrified of hurting Raymond Palmer. So he keeps still, scowling at Raymond’s hands, no scabs or scrapes or blood anywhere, nails clean and trimmed, just resting on Mick’s knees, right over the hole he ripped in the worn material just last week. It’s no more than a square inch of bare skin, but the contact makes Mick break out in goosebumps.

“I don’t want you to fight because of me,” Raymond says, like Mick doesn’t know. He does, he fucking _does_ , but he can’t help himself, and he wishes Raymond would understand and let him go.

“Tough luck,” he growls in response, and wishes he could say all those pretty things that people in movies say all the time. Something like _I’ll always fight for you_ , but that sounds too much like a promise and that terrifies Mick, being bound or binding Raymond to him and keeping him away from something (someone) better.

Raymond sighs; his hands tighten minutely over Mick’s knees, slip just an inch or two up over the weary denim.

“I don’t like seeing you get hurt, Mick.”

And that’s rich, coming from him – so rich that Mick actually forgets he’s been actively avoiding meeting Raymond’s eyes. So he does, and then he can’t look away, trapped as always in the warmth and kindness of Haircut’s gaze. He scowls, but he’s aware that Raymond stopped being intimidated by him somewhere in the past four months. It’s good, mostly: Mick doesn’t want Haircut to be afraid of him. But sometimes it’s really damn inconvenient, because Mick’s best approach to emotions is to scare them away and that option’s out with Raymond.

“And I don’t like letting those assholes call you an idiot,” he snarls back.

He fully expects Raymond to sigh again, to shrug and maybe move out of the way to let Mick walk away for good. He should know better by now – Haircut can be surprisingly stubborn, in that quiet, contemplative, sweet way of his.

But Raymond just looks at him, for a moment, and then _smiles_ and Mick’s kind of glad that he’s still sitting down because Haircut’s throwing him off-balance with that reaction. Not that it’s the first time, but Mick’s still shocked from time to time by Raymond’s capacity for forgiveness.

“Mick, I’m used to that. Sure, it sucks, but my brother has been calling me worse for as long as I can remember. And not just Sydney. I’ve always been the butt of everyone’s jokes. But you know what? It doesn’t matter, because now I’m _your_ butt.”

Mick, unsure what to say to that, watches Raymond’s whole face turn deep, deep red as the kid realizes just what he’s just said. And sure enough, Mick can practically see Raymond’s beautiful brain overload, shut down and then reboot in the span of maybe five seconds.

“I, uh! I mean. Not… wow. It sounded really cool in my head,” Raymond groans, head hanging, and Mick can’t handle it anymore. It’s one thing to see Raymond disappointed with Mick’s behavior, but there’s no way in hell Mick’s letting Raymond look disappointed with _himself_ , ever again.

“Sounded pretty good from where I’m standing,” Mick huffs and reaches for Raymond, cupping his reddened cheek with his clumsy, big hand. It always feels like he’s going to do it wrong, whenever he wants to be good to Raymond: like it will always backfire, no matter how gentle Mick tries to be. Even now, he leaves a thin stripe of his blood over Raymond’s cheek, and it’s almost enough for Mick to pull away, worried.

But the look in Raymond’s eyes steadies his hand and he finds the guts to run his thumb over Haircut’s cheek, as gently as he can with his fingers all rough.

And then Raymond’s moving, pushing himself up and winding his arms around Mick’s shoulders, practically climbing onto Mick’s lap. All that Mick can do is hold him close, and he’s proud of himself for not reacting with panic to the sudden hug attack. He’s not used to that, from friends, from family, and definitely not from whatever it is Raymond has become over the last few months. But he wants to get used to it, wants to get to the point where he won’t freeze even for a second when Raymond gets this close. He’s well on the way already and sometimes it scares him – but then, it’s easy to turn his head a little and breathe Raymond in, soap and boy and some sort of candy and a weird old-people herbal shampoo. Mick closes his eyes for a moment, because Raymond can’t see him get vulnerable anyway, and holds on tight.

“Please don’t punch Sydney again,” Raymond mumbles into Mick’s shoulder. “Mom’s going to worry.”

And that’s another thing Mick doesn’t know, having a mother who would actually give two shits about him, a mother he could give a shit about in turn. He doesn’t really care about Mrs. Palmer too much: the one time they met, she watched him with that wary look adults always get whenever he shows up within fifty feet of their perfect little families, and then she pointedly told Raymond that he had homework to do and maybe his ‘friend’ could visit another day. He’d gladly worry her with Sydney’s busted face, the guy deserves it for being a dick and _she_ deserves it for not telling one of her kids _not_ to be a dick to the other.

But if she worries, Raymond will worry, and Mick wants to avoid that. Maybe his track record at protecting Raymond sucks so far, but he can always try to even out the score.

He nods, slowly, and sighs into Raymond’s hair. It’s getting long, and Mick likes it a lot, all soft and curling a little at the nape of his neck. Maybe one day soon, he won’t be afraid of running his fingers through the dark strands; he can almost feel it already.

“Yeah. You win.”

“…honestly I’d like to say something cool here but I think it would just come out all wrong again.”

Raymond’s chuckling now, squirming a bit in Mick’s arms, and Mick, unseen, can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. He doesn’t know how long Raymond will manage to forgive him for everything wrong that Mick does and is, but for now, he’s willing to take it day by day. And maybe, he’ll manage to learn how to do something right just in time.

 

 


	14. "How many bananas?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon prompt: "How many bananas?" "Enough to be a guy in a math problem."  
> I had great fun with this, so whoever you are, anon, thanks :D

Sara saunters into the room with a storm in her eyes. Ray looks up from his cards (not like he’s going to win anyway) and blinks when she points a finger at his face.

  
“I thought I made myself clear that we’re not to introduce future tech to the past,” she huffs, and Ray blinks again. He’s unaware of losing any (important) pieces of his suit this time, so he doesn’t really know what she’s talking about.  
  


“What happened?” he asks, politely, and she scowls.  
  


“What happened is that there are forty toasters in our cargo bay and I swear to god if any of you were playing at Firefly again-“  
  


At this, she cuts herself off and shoots a glare Nate’s way. Nate stuffs a donut in his face and gives her an innocent smile.  
  


“I had nothing to do with that.”

The emphasis on ‘I’ is suspicious even before Mick snorts into his beer. Sara whips around and puts her hands on her hips.  
  


“Did you steal forty toasters?”  
  


“No,” Mick shrugs. Ray watches Sara throw her hands up in the air in exasperation and quietly, he sympathizes. Really, Mick is a good guy, Ray believes that with all his heart, but his borderline kleptomania can be a bit much sometimes.  
  


“Forty?” Ray clarifies, glancing at Mick who seems to care more about his empty bottle than about the fact that he’s been discovered.  
  


“Why?” Sara asks, and really, it’s telling that she doesn’t even doubt that Mick actually did it.  
  


“I didn’t steal them,” Mick huffs. “I traded them.”  
  


“For what?!” Sara demands.  
  


“Bananas.”  
  


That gives the whole room a pause, and it takes Sara the shortest time to recover.  
  


“Bananas,” she sighs and rubs a hand down her face. “How many bananas?”  
  


“Enough to be a guy in a math problem,” Mick snickers and grabs another beer.   
  


“So… four?” Ray suggests hopefully. Mick and Sara both give him looks that make it clear that’s not the correct answer.   
  


“Those I did steal,” Mick smirks, obviously happy with himself. “They were gonna throw them away anyway.”  
  


Ray, despite his better judgment, is touched. It’s been a few weeks since they somehow stumbled upon a documentary about bananas being sorted by size and thrown away if they did not fit the market standards, and Ray remembers being upset about so much viable food being mindlessly destroyed. The fact that Mick would remember that and even use that knowledge to somehow alleviate the problem, a little, warms Ray’s heart.  
  


Maybe he’s just too far gone on Mick Rory if he appreciates the man stealing fruit. It may be a problem, but Ray decides it’s a future Ray’s problem to solve.  
  


“Why did you trade them for toasters?” he asks, and ignores Sara’s exasperated groan: the warmth in his heart must be visible on his face and Ray knows how Sara gets around obvious displays of affection, even if they’re not aimed at her. Mick’s the same, really, but he’s become used to Ray’s face, incapable of hiding any emotion. 

“Because bananas make shitty wedding gifts,” Mick huffs and chugs half of his beer, frowning at Ray even though Ray knows it’s a fond frown, if there is such a thing. “And you were fretting too much about what to get Speedy. Now you can finally shut up about it, Haircut.”  
  


That throws Ray for a loop. “I’m getting them a toaster?”   
  


“ _We_  are getting them toaster _s_.”  
  


At that point, Sara decides she’s had enough – apparently her ability to care about this issue evaporated when she realized Mick was not in fact going to distribute toasters in 1932. She grabs one of Mick’s beers off the table, gives him a look that dares him to protest, and marches away, mumbling something about impossible people. Ray doesn’t think it’s a compliment… but he smiles at Mick anyway.   
  


“That was very thoughtful of you.”  
  


Perhaps a bit misguided, but thoughtful. Ray has long ago decided to appreciate small victories.   
  


Mick, in a true Mick fashion, just huffs.  
  


“Now shut up and play, Haircut. Your money’s not gonna lose itself.”  
  


“Well, if I lose it all, I’ve still got a shirt on my back,” Ray says cheerfully. Mick gives him a look that turns from mildly annoyed to smoldering, and Nate chokes on his donut behind their backs.   
  


Ray’s not really sure why, but the next morning, there’s a nice laminated note stuck to the kitchen table, saying ‘NO STRIP GAMES WHERE PEOPLE ARE EATING’. Mick sets a new sixpack on top of it, and nobody dares to mention it again.


	15. "Are you drunk?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heartless241 requested "Are you drunk?" with drunk!Ray and confused!Mick.

Mick doesn’t even look at the damned doppelganger. The trip back to the Waverider is awkward at best, and Mick’s aware of the other man shooting him quizzical looks. He’s Snart, no doubt about it, with his stupid knowing eyes and tiny little smirks, paying attention to the shit Mick wants to hide. At the same time, something’s missing, like a beer bottle without a label on it to tell you what’s inside. It’s still beer, probably, but there’s no telling if you’re getting the good shit or just watered-down piss.

And Mick doesn’t feel much like gambling tonight, so he takes off as soon as they get to the time ship and beelines for the kitchen. He needs a drink, a real one, labels and all, and he doesn’t stop until he’s halfway through the first bottle. That’s probably why he doesn’t immeidately notice he’s nota lone – or it could be because Haircut’s kinda hunched in on himself in that corner, forearms on the table and head hanging down like they haven’t just defeated fucking Nazis.

Mick grunts and pulls out a chair, slamming his bottle down with a little more force than necessary.

“What got  _your_  panties in a twist?“ he snaps, and then regrets it a little bit when Haircut glances up and he looks… hurt. Because Haircut hasn’t grown up in the same world as Mick has, and he doesn’t know that Mick isn’t being an asshole, he just doesn’t have any other way of doing this ‘feelings’ crap. You gotta have some rough to balance out the soft, that’s what Mick learned, and sometimes it drives him nuts to see Raymond letting all the sappy, soft  _emotions_  just hang out for the world to see.  

Like when his mouth twists into a sad smile – there’s something so openly vulnerable about him that Mick’s gut twists into a tight knot. Anyone could use that against Raymond,  _anyone_ , and what does it mean that Raymond’s not afraid of Mick being the one to do it? Mick doesn’t want to think about it, so he grasps for anything else to say: he’s not one to fill silences with unnecessary words, but somehow, this quiet, pensive Raymond is way too wrong.

And then, Haircut curls his fingers around his glass and brings it to his lips, and the sharp scent of alcohol carries all the way to Mick.

“Are you drunk?” he asks, the glassy sheen of Raymond’s eyes suddenly making a lot more sense.

“Not yet,” Haircut mumbles, “but I’m trying to be.”

Mick doesn’t like the sound of that. “Why?”

“Because you seem to be doing that a lot… so it must be helping, right?”

That’s how Mick knows Haircut’s boozed up to the gills: who in their right mind would make Mick an example of healthy coping?! Even  _he_  knows that he’s been drinking a lot. It’s not a problem, he could stop if he wanted to, it’s just that he doesn’t have a reason to want to be sober.

Maybe Haircut doesn’t have one, either.

“What’re we drinking about?” Mick shrugs. He always hates talking about the things bothering him, mostly because he doesn’t know how to voice them, and partly because he’s afraid that letting them out would just bring the nightmares back. But Haircut’s different, Haircut always has words for every little stupid thing that crosses his mind, dozens, hundreds of words just flooding his mind, so he probably knows what the fuck it is that’s driving him to the bottom of a bottle.

It takes a little while for Raymond to breathe in deeply enough to let out what’s troubling him.

“A friend got married today,” he says. Mick nods – he was there, and he doesn’t think now is the time to point out that the speedster didn’t, in fact, marry his girlfriend because Nazis invaded. He doesn’t think the technicalities are important here: when Haircut continues, it turns out Mick was wrong anyway. “I used to be in love with her. And it kind of reminded me of Kendra, and how it didn’t work out with her, and how every woman I ever cared about left. Or died: but with my track record, who’s to say Anna wouldn’t have left in the end too?”

He chuckles, but it’s sad and broken, and he finishes his drink in one long gulp that leaves him coughing into his hand. When he looks at Mick again, there are tears in his eyes, and Mick doesn’t believe it’s just because of booze going down the wrong pipe.

“Go on,” Haircut shakes his head, mouth twisting in something like a smile, “tell me. I know I’m overreacting, and it’s stupid and I shouldn’t be doing this-“

“Nah,” Mick interrupts, gulping down the rest of his beer, “sometimes you just gotta let it hurt.”

Raymond looks at him then like he wants to ask about all the times Mick has taken that advice, and one of them is definitely not drunk enough for  _that_ conversation.

So Mick gets up (ignoring the resignation in Raymond’s eyes is harder than he would’ve thought) and punches his order into the fabricator: because this right here, this needs something stronger. He sits down a minute later, setting the bottle of Jack in front of Haircut, and huffs when he’s met with a small, grateful smile.

“You don’t have to keep an eye on me, you know,” Haircut says quietly, like he’s ashamed of taking up too much space and time. It’s a feeling Mick knows too fucking well, and he’s not about to let Raymond wallow in it all by himself.

Mick pours them both a healthy four fingers’ measure and pushes a glass towards the other man. “Sure I do. You need to get shitfaced, I’m here to make sure you do it well.”

Mick can practically hear the lecture about alcohol not being an answer, but Raymond must be more drunk than Mick gave him credit for, because he doesn’t say anything except a quiet ‘cheers’ as he downs a good half of his glass at once. Mick whistles appreciatively, and wonders how much booze they’ll need, if not to get answers, then to tune out the questions for a while.


	16. "I didn't intend to kiss you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon.

Mick has no idea how Haircut’s still standing, after fifty-seven hours of tinkering with the science fuck-up of the day. The time and space is about to go off like fireworks and everyone’s running around trying not to count down the seconds until they will have officially broken the whole universe.  
  
Well, technically it’s not  _their_  fault, but it will be, if they don’t figure out how to fix this in the next ten to twelve hours.  
  
Doesn’t mean Mick’s gonna watch Haircut drive himself to the ground, though. 

The sure sign that Raymond needs sleep more than anything is that he doesn’t even notice Mick come up behind him. Mick’s not exactly the stealthy type - at least not when he’s not actively trying to be sneaky - and Raymond’s never exactly the most observant one, not when it comes to his personal safety, but Mick’s been sipping beer and burping loudly right behind him for good five minutes until Raymond turns - presumably to grab some knick-knack or another - and jumps, yelping like a startled dog.

“Hey! Wow, you’re close. I mean. What are you doing here? Aside from checking up on my progress because the fate of the world kind of depends on it right now, but no pressure, right?” 

Raymond lets out a weak, pitiful excuse for a laugh and turns to his workbench, reaching for… actually Mick doesn’t care what he’s reaching for, because in the next second, he huffs and steps even closer to Haircut, grabbing his wrist.

“You need sleep.  _Now,_ ” he barks, annoyed. “You won’t be any good to anyone if you keel over.”

Raymond turns. They’re so close that Mick can see the little flecks of gold in his rich-brown eyes (and dark, dark circles underneath them). 

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Mick starts, but the words get caught in his throat when Haircut’s free hand suddenly comes up to his chest in a gentle, quick caress.   
  
“Thanks, but I have to finish this. I’ll be right there.”

And then he leans forward and his warm, dry lips brush against Mick’s cheek and  _what the fuck is happening?!_  Mick gapes, for a good long while - so long that he can see it in Raymond’s expression when his brain reboots and he realizes what he’s just done. His eyes grow wide and he tries to step back, bumping into the workbench behind him. A few tools clatter to the ground, but Raymond’s just staring back at Mick, face reflecting the exact amount of panic that’s rising in Mick’s chest. 

“I didn’t intend to-”

“Go to sleep,” Mick snaps and strategically retreats. And if he spends the next twenty minutes chugging beer and rubbing his cheek that has gone too damn warm all of a sudden… well then that’s nobody’s fucking business.


	17. "Meet me out back with some champagne."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A request from anon on tumblr: I really hope this reaches you, nonnie, whoever you are, because tumblr ate the draft so I have no way of sending it to you :/ sorry.
> 
> royalty!AU

The crumpled note feels oddly warm in Mick’s fist, a sharp contrast to the bottle cooling his other palm. There’s no signature on it, but Mick would know the looping script anywhere in the world.

 _Meet me out back with some champagne,_ it says, the long lines so shaky that Mick can nearly hear the voice whispering in his ear, desperate and terrified.

He leans against the rough stone and breathes in the night air, watching the sky for any signs of danger, but the weather is against them, clouds hiding any potential aircraft from sight. Perhaps the imminent storm will dissuade their enemies, grant them one more moment of peace on the brink of war.

Mick does not want to think about it, not right now. He’s been through war before and he does not fear the whizzing of bombs raining down upon a city; he’s made as much peace as he could with the sight of bloodied bodies strewn across the sidewalks where children had played only days before. They are not that far along, not yet, but Mick has never been an optimist: the country is so close to disaster that Mick can almost taste blood at the back of his tongue.

No, he’s not afraid of war, even though he is not looking forward to the things it will do to this city, this country. What Mick is truly afraid of is what this war will do to the gentlest man he has ever known – the man who has just been thrust to the forefront of this mess.

He almost misses the quiet creak of the door opening to his left; and then Raymond’s there, eyes wild as he looks around for a few seconds until he spots Mick, and then he nearly falls forward, reaching for Mick as he goes.

Mick easily catches his elbow and pulls him close. Even in the dim light, he can see the pain in every line of Raymond’s face, in the fake smile the man tries to pull. They all think him vapid, scatter-brained, the people who are supposed to stand by his side. They will: they would be betraying too much if they did not, but they will not do so out of any great love for their new monarch, and Raymond is far too smart not to know that. Maybe that’s why he leans into Mick’s grip, as if he’s in dire need of the only unconditional support he has ever gotten.

“Got the champagne,” Mick says, holding the bottle up. It has never been his drink of choice, and he has never seen Raymond indulge past what was required of him at various state functions, but he supposes the champagne is more of a psychological crutch at this point. He lets Raymond reach for the bottle, pull the cork out and let it fall to the ground. The champagne bubbles up, coats the dark glass and drips to meet the rainwater gathering under their feet; both of them watch the bubbles fizzle for a moment.

Mick wonders if he should say something, but the only words that cross his mind are the ones Raymond would surely not appreciate, having heard them a hundred times too many today. Raymond’s face is drawn tight, the fake smile finally washed away by the damp night air, and he stares at the champagne for a moment. Mick can practically hear his thoughts, his fear that standing here, bringing the outside world into whatever fevered dream has sparked up between them, is making everything a little too real.

“To Sydney,” Raymond whispers and takes a long gulp straight from the bottle, heaving a shaky sigh when he’s done, and Mick’s reminded that it has barely been twelve hours since the news of the assassination struck the palace like a physical blow. Twelve hours, in which Raymond’s had to sit in several meetings, sign documents, make decisions, jump through all the hoops which he has been hoping to avoid his entire life.

He has not had a moment to himself, a moment to mourn his brother who had been an arrogant, cruel man, but whom Raymond loved regardless, as much as only he could love, with his entire heart and no regard for self-preservation or propriety.

Mick growls under his breath at those memories. Sydney, His bloody Majesty, always having nothing but contempt for his younger brother, and Raymond smiling through the humiliation, through every insult hurled at him, and soldiering on. Raymond is the bravest damn man Mick has ever known, and if Mick still had a proper heart, it would break at the thought of what future holds.

He drags Raymond closer anyway, because he’s never been that good with words and Raymond has never held that against him, unlike so many others. The King, without a crown but with the weight of the country already upon his shoulders, sags into Mick’s embrace and drags in an unsteady breath. His face is warm where it presses into the side of Mick’s neck, and there might be moisture, but with the damn rain, Mick can’t be sure.

He runs his hand soothingly down Raymond’s back, knowing full well that no touch, no word can make this go away.

“What am I going to do? I’m not a king… I’m a scientist, Mick, what am I going to do?”

The whisper is barely there and Mick tenses, tightens his arms around Raymond and wishes there were something he could do, any way he could help Raymond carry this burden. But he’s just a guard, little more than a hired goon sworn to protect a duke – no, a King – the way polished gentlemen in pretty suits can’t. There is no way for him to step into the light where Raymond might need a helping hand, a shoulder to lean on: Mick’s place is in the shadows, and from there, Raymond will slip out of his reach, further away than ever before.

“You’re gonna be a damn good King, that’s what,” Mick huffs, lets the words catch on the damp hair behind Raymond’s ear. His lips brush a light kiss to the arch of exposed skin there, soft and sensitive and warm, and Raymond shivers against him. It’s not desire, not like usual – not when the man is busy shuddering against his obligations, against the fact that he will be the one to decide who lives and dies from now on, how many soldiers lay their lives to rest on the battlefield. He’ll try to save them all, and he’ll fail – he will never be able to sleep again, to look at himself in the mirror, without seeing the blood of thousands staining his skin.

And Mick will be there to watch, from the shadows, as the light destroys the best man of them all.

 


	18. 'kissing out of necessity'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For anon on tumblr who asked for atomwave kissing out of necessity.

“Are you serious?” Nate asks, staring at their unconscious teammate. Ray looks oddly peaceful, almost like he wasn’t caught up in the crossfire of high-tech weaponry and demonic magic.

“Absolutely, love,” Constantine grins, obviously not worried in the least, which should probably inspire confidence but just makes the rest of the team sigh. “Only a kiss of true love can break this spell - and before you ask, yes, I already tried my luck. Alas, Doctor Palmer and I are not meant to be.”

He cackles and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket (which is immediately snatched up by Sara, growling about responsibility and fire alarms on a time ship). Nate exchanges a look with Amaya - he’s pretty sure that neither of them are in true love with Ray, but… he’s not about to let his buddy suffer the eternal coma just because he wasn’t man enough to admit that their bromance might qualify for this spell.

He opens his mouth to volunteer, only to be rudely interrupted by Mick, who shoulders past Nate and stalks up to the table where they’ve deposited Ray upon arrival.

“Mick?” at least three people yelp at once, with varying levels of concern and amusement. 

“If all of us gotta try, let’s just get it over with,” Mick grumbles and before anyone can explain that the situation doesn’t require as much quantity as it does  _quality,_ Mick is leaning over Ray’s sleeping form and planting one right on him.

Nate winces. Sara and Zari groan. Wally, for some unknown reason, whoops loudly. Constantine, bless his perverted heart, whistles lowly under his breath. 

And Ray Palmer blinks his eyes open and stares in confusion at Mick, still leaning over him.

“What…?” he murmurs, sleepy and slow. That’s when Nate notices that Mick’s neck has gone an alarming shade of red and wow, isn’t that a development nobody was expecting.

Well. Maybe Wally has been, judging by the smug look on his face. 

“You’re awake. Good,” Mick huffs and practically runs out of the room, rambling about needing more beer. 

Nate would call bullshit if he weren’t afraid that Mick would chuck that empty bottle right in his face. 

Ray, meanwhile, struggles up to sit, rubbing his face and shaking his head a little, like he’s trying to shake off the residue of the spell. Curse. Thing. 

“What happened?” he asks, and Nate really doesn’t want to be the one to tell him, but it seems other people are happy to be the bearers of weird news.

“You got cursed.”

“And Mick kissed you awake.”

“Apparently he’s your true love. I’d recommend a June wedding, it’s classic and Gideon’ll find you you a nice, cozy June somewhere.”

“What?!”

Ray looks about ready to pass out, so Nate takes pity on him and helps him get back to his own room. He’s about to leave when Ray catches his sleeve, looking so worried that Nate can’t bring himself to tease him like the others.

“Nate?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Is it… is it true? The thing, with… Mick and the curse?”

Nate sighs, wishing he had better news. But the first- okay, one of the top ten rules of being a bro is not lying in matters of life and death: which this might very well become, if someone dares to tease Mick about it to his face.

“Oh yeah. You were a regular Sleeping Beauty there.”

“Hmm.”

Nate doesn’t really want to know why Ray doesn’t seem worried, or grossed out, or just scared for his life. If anything, the worry in his eyes gives way to… relief?! And Nate lets it go, because maybe, Ray just really, really needs to sleep it off.

…

He stops thinking that when he catches Mick with his hands down Ray’s jeans two days later. And he never,  _ever_  braves the communal bathrooms at night again.


	19. 'kissing out of lust'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For anon on tumblr. Post-season 3.

Aruba is  _hell_.

It’s not that Mick minds the sea, or the sun, or even the drinks (and Sara can bite him -  piña coladas and mai tais are god’s gifts to humanity and Mick will have as many of them as he can, frilly little umbrellas and all). 

No. It’s the  _skin_ , everywhere, and Mick would normally be alright with skimpy bikinis and speedos all around, if they didn’t include Haircut’s pert little ass covered only by what looks like half a hanky.

Mick can usually control himself. Alright, he can’t, in many ways, but boning a teammate never ends well. Been there, done that, learned his lesson. It’s not even like he’s never seen Ray naked, or almost-naked, but the last time he did, they were hanging off a Soviet hook somewhere under a gulag and the time just wasn’t right to do any proper ogling.

In Aruba… well, there’s  _time_. 

And there’s Haircut, sauntering around like he doesn’t realize he’s basically a walking wet dream, sitting next to Mick and brushing his naked fucking thigh against Mick’s, andit’s too much for any man to handle.

He’s right in Mick’s line of vision when Mick’s trying to read, playing fucking beach volleyball with Zari, Sara and Wally, and Mick forgets to breathe at the sight of all that skin, shiny with sweat. 

He’s there when Mick just wants to get hammered, sits right next to Mick like it’s not indecent how he’s mostly  _naked_ , hair curling over his forehead with all the salt. Mick pushes away the disturbingly vivid daydream of licking every inch of Haircut’s body until he no longer tastes like the ocean, and stalks away with a huff.

But Ray doesn’t take the hint - Mick’s peacefully trying to sleep when Haircut sprawls on the beach chair next to Mick’s and proceeds to coat his body with something that makes him glisten like some fucking Greek god and smells vaguely of coconut. That’s it, Mick can never have another piña colada without having obscene thoughts about Raymond’s pecs.

And then,  _then_  the fucker has the audacity to turn his bright smile onto Mick:

“Hey, can you get my back? I can never reach far enough and I burn pretty easily-”

Mick chucks the whole bottle of sunscreen into the waves and gets the hell out of there before the whole team gets banned from Aruba for indecent acts in public.

No wonder then that Mick’s almost relieved when John Constantine and his nerd boyfriend show up with a demon’s head (and if he grudgingly wonders all the way to the ship what is it about him that  _he_  can’t have a nerd of his own, that’s his problem).

Of course, he doesn’t expect to run into Haircut  _again_  right after getting back to the Waverider. He doesn’t think twice about the sound of the running shower when he enters the communal bathroom, but the sight of Ray, butt-naked and dripping wet, drives the last signs of rationality from Mick’s brain.

“Ah, Mick!” the idiot says cheerfully, smiling like he’s pleased to see another guy in the showers. “Sorry, I’ll be out in a sec- the sand really does get everywhere, doesn’t- whoa!”

And that’s it, that’s all the sound Ray gets to make before Mick’s pushing him against the nearest wall with a growl low in his throat, smashing their mouths together and getting a handful of that wet, round ass. Ray makes a startled sound into the kiss and then- then he’s gripping Mick’s shirt and pulling him closer, plastering their bodies together and Mick hums happily at the increased friction. Ray yanks at Mick’s shirt, pulling it as far down as it will go with Mick refusing to let go of that perfect body, even for a second-

-so of course that’s when the ship’s alarm goes off and Mick groans, breaking the kiss and letting his forehead drop to Ray’s wet, shiny, slightly sun-burned shoulder.

“Later,” he huffs, and doesn’t wait for the response before getting out of there because if he does, he’s going to bone Haircut right there, demons or not. 


	20. inhibitions (fuck or die)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For houseofdead on tumblr who asked for 'fuck or die' with atomwave :)

“Ray? Ray! What’s wrong?!” Sara yells, barreling through the door like the Waverider’s on fire.

Ray does his absolute best to pull his pants up as fast as he can, but mortification slows his movements and there’s an awkward second when his dick is hanging out for Sara (and Zari and Amaya and Nate) to see.

Ray’s had better days, that’s for sure.

Mick, of course, looks unconcerned, raising an eyebrow at their teammates, crowding the doorway to Mick’s room and gaping at them in pure shock. And obvious worry. In a different situation (namely, with his pants firmly on), Ray would feel touched for having teammates who are concerned about his health.

Sara, always the captain, is the first to recover.

“Gideon said you were in distress,” she says slowly, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Elevated heart-rate, excessive sweating, chemically induced, potential poisoning…”

“I’m… fine,” Ray squeaks, but his voice is shot and he’s sweating and he just knows his pupils are blown, and a shiver runs through him when he tries to smooth his hair back from his damp forehead. “Really. It’s… it’ll pass. I won’t _really_ die.”

That’s exactly the wrong thing to say, because Sara’s eyes go wide and then she frowns at him:

“What? What do you mean, you won’t-“

“It’s from my book,” Mick grunts, and Ray just knows he’s scowling at their teammates, even when Mick has his back to Ray at the moment. “Early birthday present or some shit. Haircut knows what he’s doing. Right?”

He addresses the last part to Ray, and the hint of concern in his voice is enough to make Ray smile. And shiver again.

“I… think so?” he tries, and then Mick is scowling at _him_ , and that’s… not nice. At all.

“You _think_?! You said it was safe!”

“It is!” Ray yelps. “At least I think it is? There’s not exactly scientific precedent for inducing a temporary… um. Situation? Like this?”

“What situation?” Amaya asks, suspicion clear in her voice. “Ray? What did you do?”

And Ray can’t really think of any explanation besides the truth, probably courtesy of the lowered inhibitions, among other things.

“There’s this… trope that Mick likes to use. In his books. So I figured… it would be fun to try? It’s about… um. Needing to have… uh. Have sex to survive?”

“Oh my god,” several Legends groan at once. It might be all of them, even. Ray sighs and closes his eyes.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow? Please?”

“Oh, we definitely _will_ ,” Sara smirks and then shoos the rest of the team out of the door. “C’mon, guys, we wouldn’t like Doctor Palmer to die of severe Vitamin D deficiency, would we?”

They’re still cackling when the door swooshes closed and Ray wants to die for real now – until Mick steps back into his personal space with that wicked gleam in his eyes.

“So, where were we?” he asks, his growl decidedly inviting, and Ray decides to stop worrying about the rest of the team.

He has a man to play out a dirty fantasy with, after all.


	21. 'soft kisses'/slow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anon on tumblr, who wanted atomwave and soft kisses. Kinda morphed into something else, but I had fun writing this :)

Some people call Mick slow. Maybe they’re even right, in a way – but what Ray doesn’t get is that they always say it like it’s a bad thing, say it like the only thing a man is permitted to be is hard and fast and unrelenting, a force to be reckoned with, a punch landing before anyone’s the wiser.

Mick is all that: the half-truths have been etched into his bones, burned into his flesh, through his childhood, in prison, by the Time Masters, with every passing year of the lost decades (centuries) that he still won’t talk about.

But sometimes, in the mornings, Mick forgets all those harsh lessons, twists in the warm sheets and drags his fingers up Ray’s side, knowing full well that his husband is still too sleepy to react.

In the mornings, Ray is slower than Mick, never having been an early bird. He can force himself to get up and function, go through the motions and look alive, but his brain won’t turn on for the next hour at least. So when the first sunlight makes their bedroom glow soft and warm and golden, Ray is only half-aware of the arm around his waist, of the lips dragging over his shoulder, trailing up his neck like an absent-minded caress. He’ll smile about it, yes, appreciating the deliberate slowness: because Ray loves all of Mick’s hard and fast and unrelenting, but in the mornings, he couldn’t measure up, couldn’t process. And Mick, the man who can snap into complete awareness in half a second and usually does, makes himself slow down for Ray’s sake, trusting that he won’t be called on it.

Ray’s senses come online one by one: touch is usually the first, with the drag of a deliciously, familiarly rough hand, feather-light against his naked skin. Then, hearing, and Mick’s quiet, even breaths, the rustle of sheets, the content, barely-there huff-groan-purr at the back of Mick’s throat when his stubbled cheek scrapes against Ray’s shoulder. The smell of him, heat and sweat and the soap they both use because Mick can’t be bothered to pick out his own and probably uses because deep down it comforts him, just like it comforts Ray to turn his head and breathe in the barely noticeable scent of ‘home’ and ‘right’ and ‘mine’. He usually smiles, eyes still closed, and taste follows in a kiss, not entirely pleasant because neither of them are Disney princes and Mick likes spicy dinners and beer and only brushes his teeth because Ray would keep a lecture on dental hygiene going way past bedtime if he didn’t. But sometimes, a thing doesn’t have to taste good to be familiar and comforting and wanted, and morning kisses are like that, slow and sweet and a little gross, but Ray wouldn’t trade them for the world even if he wrinkles his nose a little from time to time.

That’s when he usually opens his eyes, finally, because he likes Mick to be the first thing he sees every morning, the last he sees before closing his eyes at night. It might be sappy, and Ray never said it out loud, but he knows Mick understands, from the smile he gives Ray on mornings like that. It’s a smile in his eyes more than around his mouth, slow and content and a little like sun in early spring, warming everything just enough for something small and promising to bloom. Ray will smile back, bright and wide and maybe a little too much because that’s the only way he can smile around Mick, and some mornings, it’ll mean they’ll kiss some more and kindle the heat between them; other times, Mick’ll groan and rub his scratchy stubble across Ray’s chest and demand those runny eggs that only Ray can manage because Mick will always burn them dry. And Ray can’t decide which he loves more, but it doesn’t matter, as long as they can have all these slow mornings together until the end of time.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me or prompt me on [tumblr](https://pheuthe.tumblr.com/)


End file.
